


Tie a Yellow Ribbon

by YertleTurtle



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Angst, But I Hate That Tag, Canon Compliant, Divergent from 601, Fix It, Fluff, Gen, I'd say that, Legal Drama, Letters, M/M, Mickey Never Escaped Prison, Mickey Uses His Words, One Shot, Prison, Song fic, by the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 22:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YertleTurtle/pseuds/YertleTurtle
Summary: How will Ian react when Mickey is paroled suddenly?(But really this is all about Mickey)





	Tie a Yellow Ribbon

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the song _Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree_ (If you’re not familiar with it, hold off Googling, so as not to ruin the fic). Except I couldn’t imagine there being many old oak trees on the South Side, so you get a Shamelessly awful pun instead.
> 
> It’s canon divergent from 601, but incorporates my own spin on a few things that happened later. It’s about 3 years since 512, so roughly 2.5 years since they last saw each other. That probably equates to late S8, but Ian isn’t necessarily on his Gay Jesus bullshit. Just go with this rip in the Shameless space-time continuum.
> 
> A quick glossary for the unincarcerated:  
SHU – special housing unit, a generic term for solitary confinement. There are many types of SHUs, with different names, but they are largely used either as punishment, or for your own protection.  
CO – corrections officer.  
SA – State’s Attorney (equivalent to a District Attorney (DA) in Illinois, i.e. the prosecutor)  
Privileged mail - mail that isn't subject to inspection by prison authorities. Generally only for lawyers, doctors, etc.
> 
> Betaed by [Fckyeahgallavich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich)

* * *

‘Paroled.’

Of all the words in Mickey Milkovich’s growing vocabulary, it was the one he least expected to hear said about himself. Yet here it was in black and white - on paper. He collapses onto his bunk and gazes up at the grey concrete ceiling, stifling the urge to cackle like an unhinged madman. He’s not been able to smoke in years, but a familiar longing prickles in his fingers and he wishes to God he could get his hands on a cigarette right now. Instead, he puts his fingers to better use and jerks off in celebration. A year in the SHU is no joke, but there is one perk to the solitude.

* * *

Damon, that stupid idiot, had almost fallen for it. He liked the guy a lot, but he had the impulse control of a fucking toddler. Mickey was honestly impressed that he’d made it to his mid-twenties before he’d killed anyone. And she was pretty, far more so than the average dumpy female COs around here. So Damon, like many a con, put on his smoothest moves when she was on watch.

But no, it was Mickey she was interested in.

‘You’re different to the others, you don’t look at me the way they do – I feel like you see me in a way no-one else can.’

This bitch may not have had a gaydar, but Mickey did. And his years married to a pansexual hooker, while running the rub-and-tug, had taught him a few things about the way women will flatter a man they’re not interested in. So he mirrored her, telling her what she expected to hear, trying to buy him enough time to work out who had sent her. Probably not anyone from the outside, or else he’d be doing this dance with that young redheaded CO who wore his work pants just a little too tight. Mickey had stopped running errands for the Russian gangs once Svetlana had served him his papers, but it wasn’t too difficult to imagine someone he’d fucked up might want to return the favor, even though he’d only ever been a gun-for-hire. Still, paying a CO to seduce him and shank him in a broom closet was a lot more expensive than getting your average lifer involved, and Mickey was honestly struggling to figure out who wanted him gone that bad. The only person he could think of was his dad, but then he was back to the issue of it being a woman.

Then she upped the ante by declaring ‘we need to get you out of here.’ Mickey had always insisted they couldn’t risk getting caught by being alone together for long, so she’d had to settle for stolen kisses and other quick things he didn’t like to think about. Now she was calling his bluff - what inmate didn’t want to escape prison, to be with the love of their life? He couldn’t put in for a transfer because she’d stop it. He was in too deep to report it and take a holiday to the SHU. In fact he’d probably be found hanging if he let himself be confined to a single cell, with this corrupt bitch around. That’s why COs are so expensive - they can get to targets in places inmates can’t. He was backed into a corner.

Things got further muddled when he realized Damon was in on it too. His mood had grown increasingly buoyant and it became clear that he was a dim-witted pawn in her elaborate plan to spring the both of them. Her interactions with him must have indicated that he was a far easier mark and, while she couldn’t abandon the web she had spun with Mickey, she could draw him into it. They would need help from his contacts on the outside, and his expertise, to make their way to Mexico – if he’d help her, she’d make sure they both got out.

This also made no sense to Mickey. Whoever had sent her had paid a lot of money for her to be this persistent. The Russian gangs had beef with plenty of junkies who didn’t pay their debts, but there were tenuous non-aggression pacts in place with other gangs, so long as territory was respected. Damon was a gang member in good standing and Mickey a low-level enforcer who wasn’t even sworn – they had nothing in common besides their sharing a cell. Why risk starting a turf war with the Latino gangs over a personal grudge with some nobody like Mickey? His panicked mind ran over the facts day and night, even starting to believe that maybe he had the whole thing twisted – perhaps she really _was_ in love with him, for some bizarre reason?

In the end, Mickey had to take his ego down a notch or two, to see the bigger picture. He wasn’t special, not really. Maybe the CO wasn’t corrupt at all? Maybe she was just doing her job. Once he realized that, it all fell into place. Mickey knew a lot about prison politics. He knew about the Aryan Brotherhood from his dad, even though he’d been careful to keep out of their way on the inside. He knew plenty about the Russian Mafia, but had none of the loyalty of made-man. In short, he was useful, in the eyes of the law. Damon was loyal, but he wasn’t smart – there was every chance they’d be able to get something out of him if they worked him the right way. And Mickey had been so busy playing along, to buy himself time, that he didn’t realize he was incriminating himself by doing just that. Sure it was entrapment, but what was he gonna do about it? Lodge a complaint? It was clear this went higher than just the guards.

In desperation, he wrote to his lawyer. The shitty public defender who’d convinced him it was in his best interests to plead guilty to attempted murder, to get him off her hands. ‘You won’t play well to a jury’ she’d told him, and he’d known she was right. But she was the only lawyer he knew and therefore the only person he could write to with privileged mail. He fully expected to never hear a thing, that she wouldn’t even remember who he was - but to his astonishment he got a reply within days. ‘Tread water,’ it said, ‘Don’t arouse her suspicions, but don’t agree to anything new.’ Mickey had stumbled into a very complex situation. Others had complained of similar tactics, investigative journalists had gotten involved and then been silenced by the FBI, who’d opened a case. By unbelievable chance, another of his lawyer’s clients had also been strong-armed into turning informant, and she was aware of the probe. Within a week Mickey was wearing a wire.

The year the trial had taken to come to court had easily felt like three. The same day as the State’s Attorney sent out the arrest warrants, Mickey and Damon were quietly transferred to a super-max federal prison. Ostensibly it was for their own protection, even though their identities in briefings were kept hidden. Staff in super-max are the best vetted in the system and the prosecution wanted to be seen to take all steps possible to ensure that no-one (staff or inmates) tampered with their testimonies. In practice this meant they were both in solitary confinement, in the kind of isolation cells built to house terrorists. Sure, they had better commissaries than the guys who’d earned their place, but it was a long, hard year, in the kind of conditions that prompt contemplation, rumination and finally madness.

The trial on the other hand was bizarre, for someone who had only ever found himself on the wrong side of the witness box. They brought civilian clothes for him to wear each morning (an attempt at respectability, he supposed) and he was given fast-food and other outside treats each lunch. One day he passed Damon in one of the court corridors, sucking on a Popsicle like a happy child. He wishes he could have testified about that bitch for weeks.

A guilty verdict was returned, and then it all went quiet. For weeks he heard nothing, fearful that the deal he’d struck had been ripped up and he was being left to rot in super-max for the rest of his life. Calls to the SA in the case had gone unanswered. And then, just as quietly, his parole notice had come though.

It was time to write his letter.

* * *

‘_Ian,_’

For three days the letters had stood alone on the blank page. All those months being unable to escape his thoughts, and suddenly he had nothing to say. But slowly, the most important thing he’d ever written dragged itself out of him.

_I __know this letter probably won’t be welcome, so I’ll tell you now what I want you to know either way, before you have enough time to ball this shit up. I’m getting paroled soon, in two weeks, November 5. I can’t tell you why it’s so soon yet, but I promise I’m not fucking with you._

_ I’ll be staying with my favorite bitch of a sister. She’s living up on the North Side now, I don’t know if you knew that? She said things got kind of awkward between you two? I don’t hear from her too often either, but she’s willing to put my delinquent ass up, so I must still be doing something right. Honestly though, I’m not sure how long I’m going to stick around. I’ve got a pretty strong urge to head somewhere warm, with a beach, as soon as my parole officer’ll let me. Maybe finally learn to fucking swim._

_ Read this far? Good, here’s the tough shit._

_First I want to apologize for trying to off Sammi. Not to her, because that bitch deserved it for betraying you. But I’m sorry for what it meant for us. I was fucking terrified about what was going to happen to you - getting years in prison, or locked up in some psych ward for good, so I lashed out and did something that guaranteed we’d be separated. There I was, worried sick about you doing something impulsive and I went and did the same fucking thing. And I sure can’t blame bipolar for it, just a lifetime of growing up Milkovich. _

_ You said something, just before that bitch returned from the dead, about you not wanting me to wait around for when you’d do your next crazy shit. I realized after a while that that wasn’t just some fear you had about me giving up on you. You’d actually lived that, back in the early days where you’d try to stop me doing stupid shit and keep to the straight and narrow. I couldn’t believe you were for real because I was so convinced that I was fucked for life and there was no point trying to stop it. You taught me that wasn’t true and I fucking hope you know that bipolar doesn’t mean the same for you._

_I hope you’re doing good. Svet told me some, when she was still visiting, but she’s been gone about two years now, since we divorced. Two years is a long time. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve spent too many nights wondering what you were doing, if you were okay. If you had your shit together. You ever think about me? I don’t know what happened to make you stop loving me. Maybe that’s not even fair, maybe you were just so fucked up you didn’t know what that meant anymore. I get that you needed time to figure it all out. That you needed to do it alone. When you ran off with your mom, I could tell she’d gotten into your head. You always said you were the only one who understood her. I’m sure it felt like she was the only one who understood you too, back then. Now I hope you understand yourself – I know you had me all figured out long before I did._

_It’s been so long since I heard from you, I know I should probably take that for what means. Fuck, your last visit should have made that crystal clear, but I could see the mask you were trying to wear and the storm in your eyes too. And then you said you’d wait - well I’m calling your bluff now. I know it was a lie to ease your conscience, but a goddamn stubborn piece of me thinks there’s still little bit of me moving under your skin – fuck knows you’re under mine. They say if you love something to let it go, so I have. If I’m right about you, the way you’ve treated me since has been beyond shitty, but that that can wait._

_I told you once that what you and I had, made me free - I know that’s truer now than ever, since I’ve been locked up and had neither. You left a void in me and I know it’s not going to be fixed by getting my freedom back. No one wishes that weren’t true more than me, but it is what it is. So I have to know._

_They’ll put me on the Greyhound upstate, back to Chicago, which makes a stop at the Red Line on 47th, before heading uptown. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to meet me - I wouldn’t, even if I knew what bus I was going to catch. I know it might feel like setting a match to your life to let me back in it, but if there’s anything there, even if all you want is to cuss me out one last time, let’s arrange a signal, so I’m not left hanging any longer. Remember that old dope fiend that’s always parked in the bus shelter, opposite the steps to the L? The one with the ‘Repent,’ and ‘The End Is Nigh,’ signs? (How the fuck does he square that with being a junkie anyway?) Tie a yellow ribbon round one of them. I figure if it looks like it belongs to him, the cops or CTA won’t remove it as trash. Fuck knows they’ve had no luck removing him. If I see it, I’ll know to call you. If there’s nothing there, I won’t bother you again. _

_ Fuck You Gallagher,_

_Mickey_

* * *

Two weeks later Mickey is trying to keep his anxiety under control as he charges up the I-57 towards Chicago. He’d not received a reply to his letter, but he’d not expected one either. He’d been held in a Communications Monitoring Unit, which meant what little mail he received was closely scrutinized and often delivered weeks late.

He knows his outfit of dad-jeans, grey sweatshirt and blue canvas shoes screams ‘newly released prisoner’ to the other occupants of the bus, but he’s too distracted to care about the stigma. It’s a long journey, but his prison-issue Bologna sandwich lunch goes uneaten. He tries to think about his sister. He tries to think about the job he needs to get. He tries to think about a warm sandy beach, but it’s no use.

He thinks about pale skin. He thinks about constellations of freckles and green blots in blue eyes. He thinks about iridescent red hair and the way it morphs from flame to metal, orange to copper. He thinks about plexiglass and telephones, cruel words and cold eyes. Bile and acid.

_Fuck._

He’s still in prison, and he won’t be free until he knows.

All too soon, the patchwork of fallow cornfields give way to suburban homes and big-box stores, and the blood starts to thud audibly in his ears. Next the Red Line of the L appears, running down the middle of the expressway between the two columns of traffic, and he counts the stations down as he hurtles towards his destination.

_95th, 87th, 79th, 69th, 63rd, Garfield, _

He squeezes his eyes shut as they take the off-ramp from the expressway and then prepare to turn left onto the overpass where the entrance to the L and bus stop are. He swallows his last breath and waits for the bus to stop, then slowly lets the light shine in, squinting in case he needs to shut them again quickly.

The old dope fiend is lying there with a huge yellow pussy-bow around his neck. Yellow ribbons and bows adorn every hole in his rags and form a joyful border round his dilapidated hell-fire signs. They run up and down the sides of the bus shelter and over the roof. Mickey reckons there must be a hundred, in all. And drooping crêpe streamers, a couple of balloons, even a fucking yellow piñata dangling down, all testify that only a certain Galager could be behind it.

_He’s coming home._

* * *

_ **FIN** _ _ _ _  
_

* * *

_I'm coming home. I've done my time_  
_ Now I've got to know what is and isn't mine_  
_ If you received my letter telling you I'd soon be free_  
_ Then you'll know just what to do if you still want me_  
_ If you still want me_  
_ Oh, tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ It's been three long years_  
_ Do you still want me?_  
_ If I don't see a ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ I'll stay on the bus_  
_ Forget about us_  
_ Put the blame on me_  
_ If I don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ Bus driver, please look for me_  
_ 'Cause I couldn't bear to see what I might see_  
_ I'm really still in prison, and my love, she holds the key_  
_ A simple yellow ribbon's what I need to set me free_  
_ I wrote and told her please_  
_ Oh, tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ It's been three long years_  
_ Do you still want me?_  
_ If I don't see a ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ I'll stay on the bus_  
_ Forget about us_  
_ Put the blame on me_  
_ If I don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree_  
_ Now the whole damn bus is cheering_  
_ And I can't believe I see_  
_ A hundred yellow ribbons 'round the old oak tree_  
_ I'm coming home._

** Irwin Levine and L. Russell Brown**


End file.
